


Evan Carstairs, One and Only

by inkystake



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-27
Updated: 2018-04-27
Packaged: 2019-04-28 13:26:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14450223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkystake/pseuds/inkystake
Summary: Harry has the run of Diagon Alley and its environs for a month before September first. He makes dubious use of his freedom.





	Evan Carstairs, One and Only

**Chapter 1**

Harry James Potter stared uncertainly at the dim facade of the famous Leaky Cauldron. Tom the barman watched him from the shadows. He wondered if someone had told him about its notoriety. He smiled a little in pride. Their policy of catering to anyone and everyone regardless of blood status and money had made it fairly controversial. It was popular in a number of circles, and of course, the purebloods hated it. Being the main entry point of muggle-born to Diagon Alley didn't endear it to a certain class of people.

"Ye just gonna stand there, lad?" The curious voice had Harry whirling in surprise. “We got rooms to let.”

"Er...yes. Thank you." He had been contemplating whether to go in or find a cheap motel on the non-magical side instead.

Tom nodded, turning to go in. But not without waving a hand at Harry's trunk, making it rise into the air. Harry blinked. He stepped into the Leaky Cauldron more slowly, taking in the interior of the pub. Tom guessed he didn't really see all that much of it the first time he was here. He'd looked a little overwhelmed even before Tom had recognized him loudly, to his shame. He looked back at the boy surreptitiously.

Harry was looking around in interest. The _Cauldron_ looked like a normal pub, not that a near-thirteen-year-old was in the habit of frequenting such places. It wasn't that clean, but the look of dubious reluctance that was on the boy's face when Minister Fudge took his leave in a hurry, flinching whenever Harry said 'minister' and looking around frantically, was gone. Tom rather thought the Minister was not in one of those circles where the Cauldron was popular.

There were not that many patrons, but Harry still smoothed his fringe over the scar on his forehead. Tom noticed and revised his decision to put the lad in one of the front rooms. He made his way up a staircase that seemed to have been built haphazardly, winding up over the barstools. Harry hurried to catch up.

"I expect you'll be staying through September first?"

"Yes, sir."

He stopped at the smaller room in the back which had the least foot traffic. The larger was used for storage, or he would have offered it. Tom contemplated whether to ask if he could contact an adult for the lad. He started to ask, but met anxiously defiant green eyes and didn't. “The room isn't as large as some of the others, but ye get more privacy. Four weeks and three days is two galleons fifteen sickles Mister, er… sir." He nodded at the boy's grateful smile "You're on your own for meals. You can eat in the pub or go somewhere else in the Alley."

"Thank you, sir."

Tom waved away the sentiment. "Call me Tom." If Minister Fudge chose to allow a twelve year old to fend for himself, then Tom wouldn't interfere. Meddling in Ministry business was a pastime for fools and thrill-seekers. Tom was neither. He was a barman, nothing more or less. Still, he couldn't let a child fend for himself in the Alley. Wasn't Harry Potter muggle-raised, for Merlin's sake? Fools.

He turned to the boy. "Gets pretty busy around here at lunch and the afternoons. There are a coupla out of the way places past Gringotts that cater only to Alley folk. Nearly deserted at those times."

The kid looked curious, but said nothing. Tom opened the door, dropped the trunk inside, tossed the key to his latest customer, and turned back the way he came. "Maude likes to clean in the mornings Thursdays and Mondays. Unless you don't want her in your room. You got questions, I'm always downstairs."

It was a few seconds before he heard the sincere "Thank you, sir." Then "Wait!" Tom stopped. "Do you know where I can get a genealogy? I - I'd like to know about my family."

That's right. Kid was the last of the Potters. Shame. "Try Gringotts. And don't let them goblins trick you outta too much gold."

Harry nodded seriously. He'd been thinking about family the whole bus ride to London. Aunt Petunia and Dudley couldn't really be his only family, could they? He looked at Tom's retreating back. At least there was one person in the Alley that didn't seem to care who he was. A little happier, he dragged his trunk to the foot of the bed and looked around in satisfaction. It was bigger than his room at the Dursleys, even if Tom said it was a smaller one. The bed was canopied like the ones in the school dorm. He wondered if it was a wizard thing.

Hedwig soared into the window and a genuine grin lit up Harry's face. "Hey, girl."

The owl settled on a ready perch, then stared at him expectantly. "What, didn't you just come back from hunting? Don't tell me you couldn't catch a single mouse?"

If owls could look indignant, Hedwig certainly would. She barked at her owner. "Alright, alright. Let me just dig the treats out. You and Ron have such bottomless stomachs."

Hedwig didn’t even deign to notice that observation. Harry snorted, grabbed the owl treats from his trunk and put one on the table top. The perch, unfortunately, didn't have a food bowl.

He continued speaking quietly to his owl, setting out parchment and his schoolbooks on the table. He needed only an inch to finish the Transfiguration assignment.

Downstairs, Tom was frowning at the leaping green flames in his fireplace. The flames were in the shape of an old man's head with a long beard. "Don't know? How can you not know! Harry Potter's in my pub! Did you not get the Prophet last week?"

"I did. You say Fudge left him there?" The old man was frowning as well. "That is odd. I need to do something. Keep him there."

"Oi! Just like that? You want I keep him locked in his room? Sorry, old buddy, threw out the chain and manacles just last month." His words were in vain; the green flames had died down. Tom slumped back into his chair and sighed. "Bastard."

  
**Oo00oO**

 

The need for family other than the horse, the hippo and the whale had led him taking Tom the barman's advice; he went to the most neutral of the wizarding races - the goblins. A few days later, he had a complete geneaology of the Potter and Evans families from the 15th century to the present and a couple of surprises he hadn't expected. The revelation that Sirius Black was distantly blood related to him made him wish he'd never thought of it, seeing the face of his 'cousin' plastered over the news as a murdering psychopath.

That pain was alleviated when he saw that Lily Evans was descended from a magical line. That took his interest away from Sirius Black and into a somewhat rapacious digging into the Carstairs family.

He also learned that Grindelwald and Voldemort together had extinguished a fair number of wizarding families and he was the de-facto heir of several minor names on both sides of his family.

The persona of Evan Carstairs was born when he discovered that the Carstairs members tended to produce metamorphmagi. Unfortunately, his upbringing, specifically the lack of proper nourishment, had stunted whatever skill he might have. Upon learning that the skill can be forced, his desire to become someone else other than the famous Boy-who-Lived had overridden the risks. A potion and a night of pain later, a russet-haired, blue-eyed Evan Carstairs took his first uncertain steps into Diagon Alley.

Free-form shifting like natural metamorphmagi did was barred to him. He was advised not to try it, if he didn't want a painful end. That was fine, he was content with the single form. One alternate identity offered Harry the anonymity he wanted and more.

He'd been nearly a full week really learning the ins and outs of Diagon Alley, and the various smaller alleys that branched off of it. He was contemplating a jaunt into Knockturn when Narcissa Malfoy nearly stumbled into his arms. He'd been tapping his wand (glamoured by Tom, of course, who by now knew his secret identity - hard not to when you're a bar owner who knows every coming and going in the place) on the entrance to Diagon Alley when a sudden pop to his right startled him into pointing a wand at the person now leaning heavily on the brick wall.

The surprise in the dark eyes had Harry thinking she apparated into the wrong area. The panic at the grinding sound of the opening wall told him she'd rather not be seen. He involuntarily waved his wand at the opening, and the doorway started reversing itself.

He knew who she was, of course. The Prophet's society pages heavily favoured the Malfoys, among others. Lucius Malfoy didn't have a Wizengamot seat but his wealth made him influential and his wife was from a family as close to nobility as any wizard can get without actually placing themselves under the banner of a non-magical Queen.

The contrast between the cold-eyed woman in the newspapers and the slightly disheveled woman panicking before him was enough to confuse Harry. He did something that, when he looked at the situation later, was entirely stupid. He turned aside (from an armed Malfoy!) and fixed his gaze on the back entrance of the Cauldron. He could tell she paused at that action, before whispered enchantments sounded. It was here he realized this was Draco Malfoy's mother! What had the git told her about him? Then he remembered he wasn't Harry Potter at the moment.

Still, the tap of wand-wood on brick was a very welcome sound. He turned. The woman looked as impeccable as ever. Harry knew better. His primary school teacher had the same look about him. He'd smiled and laughed with the students. But when he was alone or thought he was alone - Harry was that skilled at effacing himself even then - or when he'd gotten Harry's classmates occupied with something, the look appeared on his face. Harry wondered what it meant, until the man collapsed due to 'stress and anxiety'. He had many worrying things going on, was what the substitute teacher said. It was two years that he'd been Harry's teacher, and he'd looked more and more tired over that time.

What happened next jolted Harry out of reminiscences. "Thank you," murmured the woman, in a tone far less cold than he'd expected Draco's mother and the never really smiling figure from the Prophet to use. He goggled, then flushed slightly when she looked at him curiously for his lack of reply.

"You're welcome.” He hesitated. Damn Aunt Petunia. She and Uncle Vernon had what was basically the perfect servant, intuitive and knowing exactly what a person needs. “Would you care for an escort around the Alley?" he asked politely.

She turned to him fully, assessing, then her lips lifted in a polite smile. "Are you muggleborn?"

He looked at her warily. "If I am?" Dark eyes met defiant blue for a moment. Harry thought he caught the flash of amusement, but she turned back to the Alley, and merely said. "Madame Malkin's is not too far away."

"I'll even carry your bags,” he said grandly, taking on the more confident demeanour of Evan Carstairs. Having free run of the Alley without the need to hide a scar had been more than good for him.

Still, with the way her eyes lingered on his less than impressive clothing, it was a surprise when all she said was "I'll take your arm."

She must have been more out of sorts than he thought.

Aunt Petunia had never invited him to go shopping. Back then, he'd thought it was one more way to isolate him from the family and he'd always envied that Dudley came back with more clothes and toys that he'd just rip or destroy before throwing to him. An hour in the company of Narcissa Malfoy made him almost thank his aunt for never taking him.

It appeared real shopping consisted of talking patterns and colors and cuts. He'd looked on during the first thirty minutes, interested, then started to fidget. He was after all, a newly thirteen year old boy – just thirty minutes was impressive. Then he noticed both women looking purposefully at him and with a shiver of apprehension he swore off all clothes shopping with women in the future.

Mrs. Malfoy was holding some sort of black and silver material in her hands, an expectant look in her eye. "It's uh, gonna go well with your...complexion?"

Madam Malkin let out a cough. He held his hands up defensively. "You asked."

"It's a good thing then," said the blonde, "that my son inherited my complexion."

Harry nearly choked. He'd just been asked fashion advice for _Malfoy_! He sighed in relief when the two women ignored him while they talked. He glanced at Mrs. Malfoy and saw it was true. Draco was as pale as she was, with none of the slight colour his father sported. But his mother's blonde hair was darker than her son's white blonde. He'd always thought the spoiled Slytherin looked like a washed-out pastel painting. Then dark eyes met his. "Come here." He obeyed hesitantly. "What do you think of this colour?"

She lifted a pale blue robe to his inspection. He looked at her inquiringly.

"You looked tired. I suppose young men do not find clothes interesting."

He snorted in disbelief. "You took fifteen minutes debating the color green!" She almost smiled, then lifted a flashy neon yellow-green robe and held it against him. You're totally joking, his face told the world, as he took in the color. "I'll be dead before I wear something that bright."

"No, perhaps a darker shade" she murmured in agreement.

"The blue though," she nodded at the first robe. "It would make your eyes stand out."

He shook his head. "Thanks," he said uncomfortably. "But just the same..."

Mrs. Malfoy's eyes narrowed in assessment, as they did before they entered the Alley. Then she acquiesced. Harry’s stomach turned leaden for a second. Did she get that he didn’t want to stand out? No, she probably thought he didn’t have the money to pay. He took a deep breath to calm himself.

"Appearance is important," she murmured. "It sends a message to people, whether you deal with them or not. Parading around in near rags, how many shops in the Alley have bade you welcome?"

Harry flushed. His clothes were perfectly serviceable. He kept them clean and neat, but he understood what she was saying. There were a couple of shopkeepers in the more upscale part of the Alley who looked at him suspiciously whenever he entered, especially with the less than confident nature of his initial explorations in what the wizarding shops had to offer. Certainly compared to Narcissa Malfoy's elegance, he looked like a pauper. "I've never bought clothes before," he mumbled.

She glanced at him in acknowledgement. Harry dreaded her asking questions. Aside from that first foray into Diagon Alley with Hagrid, he'd never even entered a clothes shop before. And Mrs. Weasley took care of all his shopping since then. He sighed in relief when she resumed talking about colours that suited him instead.

"So what colours do you prefer?"

He shrugged. "Black." It was the color of his Hogwarts uniform after all. He couldn't say red and gold. Evan Carstairs wouldn't be sentimental about anything Gryffindor. "Red."

Madame Malkin shook her head. "Red, with those eyes and that hair? No."

"True." Mrs. Malfoy agreed. "How about a purple with blue undertones to accent those eyes? Black is a neutral choice. You should wear more colour. I'd recommend some nice browns or greens. The earthy tones would go well with your hair. A dark burgundy if you are so set on red."

Harry sighed and endured the women talking over him patiently. A blonde eyebrow rose a fraction as he insisted on paying for his new robes, but she didn't comment. She nodded approvingly when he came out of Madame Malkin's changing rooms in midnight blue with tan accents and subtle black embroidery along the sleeves and collar. In his opinion he looked like he was a nattier version of a robed monk, though it was certainly better than wearing the robes he had bought in first year. It was a relief when he was regally handed a wrapped parcel.

"It's not a bag, but I'm sure you won't be disappointed."

He stared, then snorted. Narcissa Malfoy making jokes? Entirely unbelievable. He got Madame Malkin to shrink his own parcel, pocketed it, and tucked hers under an arm. "I'm sure," he said sarcastically and held the door open for her. He had heard her telling the seamstress that most of her purchases would be delivered. She once more took his arm (almost his shoulder really, as she was nearly six inches taller than his own five feet and three) and they proceeded to Slug and Jiggers.

It was as interesting as the first time he entered the apothecary. The smells, the strange barrels and buckets and bottles of ingredients, the plants that were hanging to dry or squirreled away in some crowded corner while overflowing their pots. He saw his companion’s lips press together as they entered – she didn’t like apothecaries apparently.

They were only there less than a quarter of the time they spent at Malkin's. She got them out of there as soon as she could, Harry not even knowing half the stuff she’d had delivered.

The morning passed with him intensely regretting he’d made the offer to carry her bags. She seemed to be amusing herself by piling stuff on him. He glared at her when she placed another parcel on the small mountain he was carrying. They were beginning to get strange looks from the people there. Wait, she was a Black and a Malfoy. Did she find out who he was and was trying to do Voldemort’s job herself? Death by shopping. He snorted at the absurdity. Well, the aurors would probably exonerate her without going to trial. “Are you trying to kill me?”

Her lips lifted at the corners for an instant. “How did you ever guess?”

He laughed. He didn’t know why he found that extremely funny, but when he finally managed to stop the hysterics, most of the packages he was carrying had vanished. Shrunk, most likely. She was already moving toward her next destination. How much shopping did a witch do? He sighed. Then a thought stopped him. Was this how mothers shopped with their sons? Her next question derailed that train of thought.

“Do you go to Hogwarts?”

Harry panicked. Huh? Why was she asking? Thankfully, she continued without looking at him.

“I suppose you don’t.”

“…no.” Did Malfoy write home about his classmates? “I’m…homeschooled.” One of the girls in primary used to be homeschooled. She was the only one who talked to him even with Dudley harassing her. She’d been a friend until her family moved away again.

“With the quality of education these days, I’m not surprised you took the option. What are you studying now?”

“Things around third year level subjects at Hogwarts, I suppose.” He still didn’t have his list, but he’d seen Hermione with older student’s textbooks. There were some titles at the bookstore he recognized. He smiled fondly. She really liked to read. Maybe he should buy a book for her birthday? Then he remembered he didn’t know when her birthday was. He’d have to remedy that.

“Well, that is hardly adequate.”

What? “It isn’t?”

It took him a moment to recall what they were talking about. He frowned. Didn’t her son go to Hogwarts? Maybe they got him extra tutoring. Harry snorted silently. Well Lucius Malfoy had obviously wasted his money because his son was a brainless git.

“With some of the teachers it has now, Hogwarts only produces clerks and menial laborers.” The scorn in her voice was palpable. Harry felt a frission of irritation. “The truly erudite read beyond the curriculum.”

He was still thinking of those words as he returned to the Cauldron that night. Did all purebloods think that way? In that case, were all magic-raised students reading beyond the curriculum? He knew nothing about magic. And Voldemort wanted him dead. For the first time, he felt fear at returning to Hogwarts. But no, Hogwarts held all that was ever good for him. He told Dobby that, didn’t he? And Dumbledore was at Hogwarts. The only wizard Voldemort was frightened of. Harry shouldn’t be scared. And he wouldn’t.

He opened _A History of the British Isles_ by Sextus Fiddellwagger and returned to reading an account of how the magical son of Pepin the Emperor ruled over both magical and muggle, his reign marking one of the greatest influxes of non-magical influence in the magical world.

**Oo00oO**

 

“Lucius.”

Lucius Malfoy peered over the top of the paper, winter-grey eyes inquiring, for once almost amiable. When he saw the small frown on his wife’s forehead, he folded the paper away in a semblance of attention.

“Whatever happened to the Carstairs?”

He became a little more attentive. It was a rather interesting question. The more important matter was, of course, why his wife was asking it. But that could be learned later. “Killed off during Grindelwald’s time, weren’t they?” he answered mildly. “Grandfather once mentioned old Lysander Carstairs turned blood-traitor in the end. Pity, an old line like that.”

“Wasn’t there something about them being wizard ambassadors to the old muggle kings?”

Even more interesting. Lucius resolved to read up on the family later. Many wizards discounted their wives as little more than tools, but Lucius was too knowledgeable to fall into that trap. He knew exactly how many Malfoy ancestors had fallen because of female plots. Malfoys of recent generations took wives from influential families, one reason why they stood at the peak of wizarding society today. Also the reason many Malfoy men died before their time – strong families begat strong women. With Narcissa from a family of similar persuasion and cunning, plus an appreciable intellect, Lucius had to be doubly careful.

“Rumours. A Carstairs ancestor managed to… _befriend_ a muggle noble is all. There is greater evidence that the line became lapdogs for the Crown, however.” His lips curled in contempt. “Executioners and assassins.”

He flipped his paper open, signalling the end of the conversation. “Blood traitors long before Grindelwald.”

He waited for Narcissa to comment. But her only response was: “Indeed.”

Lucius later combed his library for information on the Carstairs but found little more than what he already knew. It seemed his great-grandfather had lost interest in the family once they were reduced to a squib and his near-squib brother during the plague. He wondered why Narcissa would take enough interest to question him. It wasn’t like she could not access the library herself. But she didn’t bring up the subject again and other matters took precedence in his mind.

He returned to the Prophet and the amusing adventures the Ministry had in capturing the ‘Death-Eater’ Black. Things have become progressively more complicated in the world. It was ironic, that the return of the so-called Savior was the catalyst that would bring the Dark Lord back. He could feel it. The Dark was gathering forces, and soon both Dumbledore and his pet Savior would perish. His fingers tightened on the paper just a bit as he thought of Harry Potter. He was as arrogant as Severus said, but still a minor annoyance. He would leave the whelp to Draco. His son needed to learn how to deal with these things after all.

He would have been annoyed to see that just one day later his dear Draco would sweep past the whelp in question without a second glance and without even a sneering comment. Harry Potter in Knockturn? That was excellent fodder for a number of campaigns against Dumbledore and his faction.

Of course, he would never know. Draco was not yet allowed in Knockturn Alley after all, even cowled and accompanied by a guarding house elf as he was. Also, Harry Potter would not be exactly Harry Potter at that precise moment.

**Oo00oO**

 

Harry had melted into the side of the building when he spotted the familiar arrogant walk from half a narrow alley away.

“Hiding from his young lordship?” The way the voice spat out the last word had Harry drawing back to avoid flying spit.

“He looked like someone I knew.” He looked back into the deeper shadows and was greeted by a snort of derision.

“Malfoys. If his father were not so well connected to the guilds, the bratling would have tripped over something and had his pretty hair harvested for potions.”

Was that why most of the residents went out of their way to avoid the boy? Harry kept his voice mild. “Guilds?”

Suddenly calculating eyes swept over him from a whiskered face and Harry winced; he had made a mistake. “New here, are you?”

He had not sooner opened his mouth than something connected painfully to the back of his head and he knew nothing more.

“You dint ‘ave ta ‘it ‘im so ‘ard, now.”

“Aw.” The newcomer smirked at the bewhiskered man who had been talking to the young boy lying at their feet, and pushed out an ample chest. “I kinda liked the posh talking you do.”

The man bared his teeth. “Good way to lure curious brats into complacency, don’t you think, m’dear?” Her lips crashed into his. “Enou’ o’ that. We get the kid to the boss first, yeah?”

She pouted, but bent down to look into the boy’s face. “Right good looking lad, too. ‘E’ll be pleased.”

He was not. The moment he saw the boy he glared at the two who had brought him in.

“What have you done!” He hissed, motioning them to dump the boy onto the battered couch. They glanced at each other, and he snarled. Obviously they did not know. He rubbed his forehead. Don’t blame them, he thought, sighing. It had been a hundred years since a face not unlike the boy’s had trudged the wizarding underworld after all. “What rot has settled into your brains that you would kidnap a noble and bring him openly to my home?”

Wizarding nobility were very few these days, less than a score of families. But they hadn't preserved their lines by being nice.

“Eh,” the whiskered Durrie shrugged. “Think he's good for some ready cash then?”

“He has the look of a Carstairs.”

The two faces in front of him paled. The five others that littered the seats and lounged against the walls straightened. He almost laughed. That bastard's shadow would still cause such a reaction after over a century? Wanker.

“We dinna know now, did we?” The woman, Trondheim, said defensively.

“And that is the only reason you are still alive.” If people knew there was a Carstairs here, they would have every assassin in the United Kingdom after the boy. Even he thought the family all dead.

“…Wot do we do?”

“We ask him what he knows, Durrie. Then we decide.”

**Oo00oO**

 

Harry Potter woke to a burst of magic jolting his eyes open. Was that what an Enervate felt like, he thought dimly. Then he leaped to his feet and tripped over the back of the couch. At least his wand was out and pointing in the direction of his captors.

Laughter greeted him instead of the spells he expected. He peeked over the back of the rather tattered furniture. His eyes immediately went to the man sitting on a high backed chair just opposite him, chuckling into a palm rather like a child hiding his laughter. He pulled his eyes away and tried to see how many other people were in the room.

An arm twined around his shoulders, holding tight when he pulled away. “Ah lad, sorry for the head,” a breathy voice whispered in amusement. “Tea?”

Harry’s brow knotted. Would Death Eaters offer him tea? “Is it poisoned?”

Another round of chuckles from people around the room sounded. It was unnerving. There were four people visible, but he had the feeling others were watching too. They did not seem to be holding malice toward him but he kept his wand out as the woman steered him back onto the couch. A cup of tea was pressed into his hand. He sipped cautiously.

“You’re not Death Eaters.”

The man behind the desk regarded him thoughtfully. “Why that particular name? Voldemort has been dead for years.”

Harry nodded. _Are you Dark wizards then?_ He didn’t ask.

“Young lads should not worry about Death Eaters nor wander willy nilly into Knockturn Alley without an escort. Who are you?”

The tea rapidly lost its flavour. He put the cup down. “You’re the ones who hit me over the head. Why would you do that if you do not know who I am?” _Maybe I did something to offend Narcissa Malfoy?_

“A mistake. Some of my friends took a rather unorthodox method of...community service. Unaccompanied children in Knockturn are generally in need of protection that can be provided by certain groups of individuals.”

“I don’t think they would want to be protected by you if you kidnap them in the first place.” Harry pointed out. Then talk of guilds and what was, in his opinion, kidnapping clicked together. “Wait, are you telling me you people are some kind of wizarding mafia?”

Someone choked and, in another second, laughter swept the room. A bewhiskered man smelling of alcohol and mud was guffawing on Harry’s right. “Mafia, I like that! Lud, mafia.”

Well, that settled it. They couldn’t be Death Eaters, anyone associated with Malfoy would not even have known the word existed. The man in front of him was grinning. “No, we’re not mafia. My name is Finnian. We sell people what they want to know.”

“Like...information brokers,” he said disbelievingly. Yeah, Dudley had a collection of organised crime films, all were violent and bloody, full of guns and knives and screaming. But what are the odds that he would be kidnapped by one?

“Smart lad,” the man nodded in approval. Harry felt reluctantly pleased at the praise, to his horror. He straightened his spine and tried to shake off the feeling.

“My name is Evan Carstairs. I want to hire you to look into someone.”

The various shadows around the room laughed but Finnian was looking at him thoughtfully, even though his lips lifted in amusement as well. That look made Harry wary. As far as he knew, there were no other Carstairs in the wizarding world. The last died over eighty years ago, and he did nothing of note. He might as well be muggle-born, so why was the man looking at him like Hermione looked at a book when she was trying to figure out something. But the man’s only words were, “Right. A hundred galleons up front. A retainer, shall we say?”

The whiskered man who was still laughing went silent as Harry plunked down a leather bag. Coins clinked against each other audibly. Long, lean fingers plucked the bag up and weighed it. Finnian nodded. “The name?”

“Sirius Black.”

There were a couple of hissing gasps. Finnian grinned at the name. “A challenge! What do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

“That will take months.” The woman murmured into his ear.

Harry frowned. He didn’t have months. September the first was not two weeks away and once he was at Hogwarts, his receiving any kind of message would be seen and noted. “Everything important since he bought his wand. Everything you can get me in a week.”

“Why that time in particular?” The woman’s brows knitted.

The whiskered man snorted. “Iffen yer handed a weapon that could do practically everything and told to go wild, what’d y’do first?”

Finnian sat back into his chair, simply watching. The child did not know, he realized. Maybe for the best – there was nothing good that came with throwing a child into the underworld. Still, he knew not of any lines that would have birthed an heir to the magical Carstairs line. The old bastard's granddaughters had been non-magical – squibs - and their children had both died young. The old man would have crowed to the heavens had his great-grandsons been magical.

Still, it would not hurt to be absolutely certain. Even if he had to break into the family crypts himself.

**Oo00oO**

 

**Chapter 2  
**

 

Harry Potter left Knockturn with a cheerful “Bye, cherie!” from his escort and a heart ticking slightly faster than usual.

He took a breath. No matter that the man, Finnian, insisted that they were a guild, he was well enough knowledgeable on non-magical organized crime – at least according to Dudley and Uncle Vernon's preferences in television – to see similarities.

“Right,” he breathed out, starting toward the _Cauldron_. “No more Knockturn, at least for now.” He had been lucky twice. A third time, he wasn't sure his luck would hold.

“Evan,” greeted Tom cheerfully. “Up for a bite?”

He shook his head. Not after the day he'd had. “No thanks, Tom. Maybe just some juice?”

The barman waved him to an empty table and he gratefully sank into a chair. He needed to think. The Goblin records for the name Carstairs did not make the family seem connected to any criminal organization. Then again, he'd had a taste of the power an individual had for changing faces and bodies with a snap of the fingers. So, what do metamorphmagi get up to in their spare time?

He gulped down goblet of cold, sweet, beverage Tom had placed on his table, poured another from the pitcher and gulped that down too. Ah, marginally better. He passed Tom a sickle with a murmur of thanks and left to the Alley again. He needed some books.

**Oo00oO**

 

It wasn't that easy, of course. Flourish and Blotts could not help even if it was the only bookstore in wizarding Britain that held books exclusively. Most other booksellers were actually second-hand vendors who had other inventory and were more like curiosity shops than otherwise. When he asked about family histories, he was pointed to _Nature's Nobility, Lords of Britannia,_ and _The Rise of the Great Magical Families of the Millenia_.

He tiredly collapsed into his bed at near midnight. The big maze that was collectively called Diagon Alley actually cut a large swath out of London that was hidden and folded into wizard space. He'd just been informed that family histories like the one he wanted were rarely seen outside a family library unless the family all died out. When they were, they were snapped up quickly as they could contain magical knowledge that only the family knew. A man with such a tome could start a profession using the knowledge contained within or, since the Goblins were properly rabid about where the money and valuables they kept went, they could claim to be a distaff branch of the family and garner a 'lineage' that would help them socially.

There was no Carstairs vault, no money, no valuables. He sat up and fished the Goblin-made family tree out. How could there not be? For that matter, how could he be the heir of a family that had died out eighty years ago? His mother never had a family tree made. He slid his finger along the black box that contained the name _Lily Evans._

The Carstairs gene came from her. She never knew that the last Carstairs to hold the name was her ancestor. Would the knowledge have helped her, he wondered. Then shook his head. No. What would knowing you were descended from magical ancestors help you against a killing curse?

He traced the Carstairs line through her father, an only child born from a second wife; her grandfather, only child born 1885 (when the name changed to Evans); her great-grandmother, younger of two sisters; her great-great-grandfather, only child; great-great-great-grandfather, the last magical Carstairs, died in 1895. There were distant cousins with the name but they died in the 1940s.

Before that, it was a hash of marriages with various magical families that was confusing in its tangled complexity. He sighed. No, wait, if he was the magical heir, then everyone magical before 1895 was out anyway. He could start with Arthur Edward Carstairs, the son of the last magical. According to the records, he took his grandmother's name at the age of eleven, most likely when he was confirmed to be a squib. He died in 1880, fifteen years before his father. He had two daughters, Rachel and Angelina Durless. Each had one son.

Rachel's son and grandson died at the same time, so if there were heirlooms of the Carstairs family, it would be with his mother's ancestors, Angelina's descendants.

Who would you talk to if you're looking for an ancestor in the muggle world? He rooted through his trunk for parchment and a quill. Hermione would know, right?

**Oo00oO**

Hedwig came winging back with Hermione's answer a scant three hours after he'd sent her a note. Hermione must have written fast, considering the length of the letter and the time it took for her to reply. Hermione wrote of censuses and civil registrations and church baptism records and courthouses and newspaper files and microfiche. Harry made a sound of dismay at the sheer scope of information and places he needed to search in. He didn't even know where his mother was born or where she had been baptized.

Should he contact one of those people Hermione said researched family histories? He didn't know where to start.

He pulled out parchment and hesitated before starting to write. By now, Hermione might be done with her homework anyway. Arthur Edward Durless should have records somewhere right?

**Oo00oO**

He was surprised when a package arrived for him at the Cauldron just five days after his jaunt into Knockturn, in the care of a Tom Dodderidge. “Already checked it for the usual stuff. It's safe,” Tom said lowly.

“The usual stuff?”

“Eh, y'know. Curses and hexes. Some people get their post sent 'ere, y'see, if they're not too sure of the sender. Me grandmum's family was into curses and cursebreaking.” He winked at Harry. “It's a right lucrative service.”

“Er, thanks Tom. Any idea who sent it?”

The old man shrugged, but grinned semi-toothily as he swept away the silver sickles that had discreetly found their way out of Harry's pocket. Cursebreaking, thought Harry, sounded interesting. Maybe he should ask Tom what made a cursebreaker? He mulled over the idea as he took the stairs. “Maybe later,” he muttered with a glance back at the pub. Tom was busy at the bar. He directed his attention to the package.

The nondescript wrapping paper torn off, Harry found a thin, wooden cylinder, its top fourth immediately melting away at his touch to reveal a roll of parchment.

His hand darted out to catch the fluttering pice that detached as the cylinder opened.

 

_**To Evan Carstairs,** _

_**A most interesting commission. I look forward to our better acquaintance.** _

 

It was signed _**Finnian, Merry Cat Hive** _.

There was a small stylised drawing of a black cat at the end of the note. It didn't look very merry, thought Harry, resigned to the strange wizarding sense of names. It was staring at him impassively, almost haughtily, out of vivid blue eyes.

An hour later, he was lying on his bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, still clutching the message holder he'd received. He'd known that Sirius Black was his godfather – there had been a note to the addendum on the Carstairs family tree and on the Potter one – but nothing mentioned that Black had betrayed his parents to Voldemort.

A dark, hot anger grew in him and he flung the cylinder at the wall. It crashed onto the mirror, producing a circular series of hairline cracks. The mirror squawked in injured protest and started berating him and mourning its glass at the same time.

“Shut up.”

The mirror went silent at the dangerous tone of his voice and the blazing glare that was being directed at it.

Harry lay back down again, the anger making him want to run out into the streets, to the Goblins, to the Cat Hive, anyone who would tell him where Sirius Black was, anyone who would give him a chance at the one who gave his parents to be murdered.

The anger became too much for his young body and it leaked out in tears from his eyes. He turned his face into a pillow and cried in madness and grief. He should have had parents. He should have. If not for them having Black as a friend.

He didn't stir from his room for two days, ignoring the letters that had come for him and worrying Tom. Finally, the barkeeper cheerfully kicked open the door to his room and forced him to eat soup, watching all the while.

“Don't you have other people to stare at, like the _customers_ downstairs?” Harry emphasized while glaring at the man.

Tom waved it away. “Nah, I'm allowed to be surly and customer-free at least one day a week, y'see.”

“Go away.”

“Lot of people liked him,” Tom said conversationally. “Sirius Black.”

Harry shot out of his bed, eyes wild.

“Used to come in here with those friends of his. Sirius Black and James Potter, them two could liven up a place any day of the week with their antics and their laughter. Most often accompanied by Remus Lupin spouting rhetoric at a table on one subject or other and Lily Evans refuting every point he made – going back and forth like playing catch with words. This was early days, y'see. The war weren't so bad yet.”

Harry had calmed down a little, still glaring.

“Of course, they weren't so well known then, just people coming together to have a bite to eat and a tun to drink. When the cry came, that they were dead and little Harry alive, 'twas half the people crying and laughing – they didn't know what to feel. 'Twere after the defeat of You-Know-Who when the cry was raised again – Sirius Black was arrested for being a traitor.”

Harry could see that the older man was lost in his memories, almost talking to himself. He pushed down his anger and listened. Even this, as horrible as it was, was more than anyone else ever said about his parents.

“You could see those, just a day before celebrating, stop to deny the tale – Sirius Black, a traitor? Was hard to take as the death of yon Potter and his wife. Them bright people, two dead and one a crook? Some people thought at least they could save the one alive and rushed straight to the Ministry, protesting the accusation. They were told the man himself had confessed. It got people mad as hornets. Easier to be mad, y'see, than to feel anything else. Better to be mad than betrayed, than sorrowed, than cheated. They all shipped him right off to Azkaban. Now you can't find one man in Diagon Alley that would say Sirius Black was once his friend. Betrayed a lot of people, that 'un.” Tom looked at his single audience.

“You one of them,” said Harry levelly.

“Aye,” Tom agreed. “Near punched the minister, for all that she was a woman, at that announcement. But 'twas nothing to what he did to you.”

“My parents made him my godfather,” Harry said.

Tom blinked. “In the old ways?”

“Who cares? How could they not know he would lead Voldemort to them?”

Tom winced. Harry sneered angrily. “It's just a name.”

“A name what would get you killed when you said it. Tabooed it, You-Know-Who did.”

“Tabooed?”

“Powerful tracking magic. You say his name, second later you're staring up his wand and an Avada. Try not to say it where there's many people, yeah? 'twould start a panic.”

After Tom left, Harry found that the conversation had calmed him down enough eat the rest of the soup and take a quick bath. Odd, as the topic should have made him more angry. All he felt was ashamed. He'd wallowed in pity and flaunted his ignorant recklessness in Tom's face.

He dropped on his bed then stood up again, wrinkling his nose at the stench. Gods and goblins, he was pathetic – he really lay there for two days? He packed his documents in his trunk, locked it, and went to find the cleaning-girl and fresh sheets.

**Oo00oO**

He wandered the alley for hours before he returned to a thoroughly cleaned room. He took out the documents that Finnian had sent him and began to read again. Anger rose once more, now cold as winter instead of the burning, bubbling crater of black emotions he'd felt before.

His teeth set. This anger wasn't any easier. Did it matter, he wondered as he traced the words that put doubt over the man's guilt, whether Sirius Black was traitor or not? The man had not been there to protect Lily and James Potter, had not been there to raise Harry.

The man had suffered for it, probably more than Harry had. He was family, whispered the words of longing in his mind. He remembered that three times in the last century, Potters and Blacks had married into each other's families. James Potter's grandmother was an Asterope Black. And there was a Potter cousin who had married a Dorea from the Black family main line. And his great-great grandfather's sister had married a Rigel Black at the turn of the century.

So he read with a frown about this distant relative who was his father's friend. After the last page was neatly placed down with the others, his frown was a scowl. He thunked his head onto the parchment-strewn tabletop. There was too much information swirling around in his head.

The gaps in the intelligence were easy to see, holes large enough to walk through. It looked like someone somewhere had made a mistake that started a cascade of other mistakes that ended with Sirius Black in Azkaban on the strength of his confession.

Even in the non-magical world, a confession was enough. In the magical world, there was only one gaol.

There were several attempts by the Black patriarch to get his grandson out of Azkaban but there were no laws on re-trial in the wizarding world. What's more, overturning a sentence by the DMLE necessitated new and overwhelming evidence. Evidence that did not exist because the Potters were dead, Lupin was a werewolf and so his testimony was 'suspect', and Pettigrew even if he survived would be disinclined to defend his murderer.

The information was comprehensive and impressive considering it had been less than a week. He suspected Finnian already had most of it before he'd asked the man to investigate.

Plenty of the data was in the articles that were blaring panic about the Azkaban escapee. It was a nice summary though. Still more was information not known to the public.

He still had the pictures of his parents and their friends. The laughing smiling man who looked so happy in their company, who had been the best man at their wedding, was a far cry from the crazy-looking convict on the Prophet's front page.

He pulled a piece of parchment in front of him and started writing his questions and taking notes. Did he dare involve Finnian again? The young-looking leader hadn't reacted to the name but his subordinates weren't so self-controlled. There was something about the Carstairs. If it was the name alone he could probably play it off but with his luck, his new face was probably inherited too. Wizards had long memories.

It took him a whole day of reading and writing and re-reading before sighed and set the whole pile from Finnian aside. There were transcripts of conversations, newspaper clippings, interviews with a number of people. There was fact and proof and rumour and conjecture. There was financial and familial information, for chrissakes, things that should have stayed private.

It was terrifying.

How easily did wizards get access to personal information like this? Or was it just Finnian and his minions?

On paper, Sirius Black looked like a somewhat childish laughing man who suddenly turned around and murdered a score of people. Or he was hiding his true nature, like the newspapers said, whispered one part of his mind. Sirius Black was a bully in school. He and James Potter headed the Marauders, a four-man group of pranksters. There were several pages of the Hogwarts years that heavily involved James Potter, a Remus Lupin, and a Peter Pettigrew.

Harry took a breath at the pain in his heart, a bit easier than the first time he'd come across that tidbit. He'd always thought his father to be good and kind and heroic. People had said so. And after all, Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia were lying about the car crash and everything else.

Now he had proof that his father had been like Dudley, arrogant and superior. If so, then what kind of person had his mother been, to have married someone like that?

He closed his eyes and cried, the pedestals that held the ideals of James and Lily Potter crumbling from the heights he'd built them to.

  
**Oo00oO**

Hermione's latest reply found him despondent still, drowning his dark thoughts in a vat of Fortescue's ice cream. He swallowed a large mouthful with difficulty and offered a cherry to Hedwig, who was wearing her 'I'm a not-so-fabulous brown owl' glamour. The owl, still miffed about the need to re-color her feathers, nodded her thanks as Harry untied the letter from her leg and offered her some of his ice cream. It was a bit more substantial than a simple letter. He blinked at the blurry lettering of what looked like old newspapers. He put them to the side.

After a minute he sat back, consternated at the letter. He tapped the letter with his wand and muttered the erasing spell he'd learned just yesterday morning. The lines of ink disappeared. He quickly wrote his reply on the now blank page.

_Dear Hermione,_

_Don't apologise, this was great. Tell me how you found the info when we meet next, alright?_

_The man wasn't important. I was looking at an old journal from this used shop in the Alley and it mentioned how some squibs are dumped into non-magical orphanages or adopted out to other squib lines. It would be interesting to see if this has something to do with muggleborn, wouldn't it?_

_I'm sorry if I cut into your holiday preparations. Have fun in France!_

_Thanks for the help._

_Harry_

Harry tied the letter once more to Hedwig, who stuck her beak into his ice cream for a large helping of just the nuts before flapping away.

“Hey!”

A wing fluttered at him from the disappearing bird.

“Damned owl.”

Hermione had found Arthur Edward Durless in London. The problem was that the Durless line died out in 1906, according to records. He hoped that his letter would dissuade Hermione from investigating further.

He shoved the last scoops of vanilla fudge and mixed nuts into his mouth and waved to Fortescue, dropping coins on the table. He jogged back to his room.

Did the Durless line die because they were the last of the main Carstairs line or was it something else? Another problem was that according to the facsimiles in his hand, Angelina Durless, his great-great-grandmother, never had a son.

He unrolled the long, illuminated parchment that was the only Carstairs family record he had. Sure enough, under Angelina Burnett nee Durless was the name Alaric Burnett (Henry Evans).

He studied the facsimile newspaper clipping that was part of Hermione's research. ' **Tragic Accident!'** it screamed. On January 23, 1885, the Baron Burnett and his wife the Lady Burnett were in an accident that killed the nobleman and his unborn child.

He quickly checked the family tree. Henry Evans/Alaric Burnett was born on January 23 1885. Lady Angelina Burnett died three years later, known for her good works as a doctor to the poor in the East End. She had no more children.

Harry looked through the rest of the papers Hermione had sent.

Rachel Durless had married an earl and her line ended with her grandson who died in 1906 at the age of four. He grit his teeth as he saw her death-date. December 14, 1885 in a fire. In one year, two accidents struck the Durless daughters. In two generations, their descendants were lost to various tragedies.

Harry was not superstitious. Even magic, as extranatural as it was, had specific limits. This was more than circumstance, more than coincidence. His family had enemies. It was a good thing he'd derailed Hermione's curiosity or she might come across something she should not touch.

He'd thought the Carstairs name to be a refuge from the unwanted fame of the Boy-Who-Lived. Now, it was another target he'd painted on himself. He knew who was after Harry Potter. Evan Carstairs' enemies were still in shadow.

Damn it.

A sudden thought struck him. If everything had not happened, _Dudley_ might have been a _baron_. A cough tore itself from his throat and evolved into a laugh.

He laughed long and hard.

**Oo00oO**

_“Are you human?”_

_Finny raised a brow. “A subjective term, I believe. Know you not of homunculi?” He gestured to himself expansively, a sharp look in his eye. “Behold. The pinnacle product of Carstairs family magics.”_

**Oo00oO**

**Author's Note:**

> Another old work.
> 
> Ciel means sky/heaven. Ciel is also used to refer to the light blue nonstandard heraldic color celeste or bleu celeste (sky blue). Opposing the standard heraldic darker blue shades of azure. Alaric means noble ruler fr. German. Could be chosen by Angelina to honor Vincent Phantomhive whose name is from vincere means to conquer, conquering.
> 
> Angelina had the accident that killed her husband and child near Ciel's 10th birthday, when Vincent and Rachel were killed. Consider that children come soon after marriage, then Madame Red would have been late teens to early twenties in 1888 Jack the Ripper murders. Consider also that she was a doctor that helped as midwife when Ciel was born. That pushes her age higher though. Possibly she pined over her sister's husband for a while before marrying at 'old maid' ages. So she could be late twenties in 1888.
> 
> Angelina met V.P. at 15 and fell in love. Assume older Rachel to have been 17 when married. 18 when Ciel was born. 28 when she died. Angelina would be 26 when the accident happened (probably newly married), 29 when she died as the Ripper in 1888, born 1859
> 
> Put the last name of the baron to Burnett because what even is his first/last name or is Burnett his last name? Burnett can be both a sur and given name, so whatever.
> 
> The old man Tom was talking to in the Floo isn't Albus Dumbledore.
> 
> Possible plots: Angeline, as descendant of a magical married to a non-magical noble, would be watched. The baroness' son assassinated (attempted) by the queen (controlled by the angel) to prevent another occurrence, possibly like a secret wizard-nobles-vs-Crown conflict behind the witch-trials or the wars of the Roses.
> 
> Since both daughters married nobility, assume that the Carstairs didn't simply kick their squibs out of the family. Or their contact with muggle nobility was strong within the framework of the Devil's Peers. Hell's Nobles. Or, the Carstairs family, apart from being a part of Hell's Peers, was also the queen's spy in the peerage and the magical government, making sure that magicals and the nobility stay separate or dealing with conflicts between magical and non-magical.
> 
> The Finnian here is still from Germany, but a magical research lab, still the product of experimentation.


End file.
